


christmas miracle

by elexus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 07:16:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17157644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elexus/pseuds/elexus
Summary: John is going back home with Sherlock for Christmas. Clearly, there's nothing that could go wrong. At all.





	christmas miracle

**Author's Note:**

> God, I never thought I'd finish this in time for Christmas, but I made it! Maybe that's the real Christmas miracle?

“Sherlock, can you please hurry up?” John shouted impatiently from the bottom of 221B’s staircase, as he peeked towards the front door, knowing there was an even more impatient cab driver waiting behind it.

There was not a chance in hell they were going to miss their train and yet here they were, fifteen minutes behind their schedule, all because Sherlock Holmes had decided that it was crucial that his navy blue shirt that just so happened to be lost had to come along on the trip. John admitted that it was a very nice shirt, but this time Sherlock’s need to look well-dressed was becoming a serious threat. After glaring up the staircase again in the hopes of seeing his friend, John pulled up his phone from his back pocket, checked the time, and proceeded to start tapping his foot on the ground. Just as he was about to shout for the detective one more time, a tall and lanky figure burst out of the door on the first floor, trying his best to wrap himself up in his big wool coat while taking two, possibly even three, bungling steps at the time down the staircase, all with a big bag slung over his shoulder. 

With an annoyed huff at his friend, Sherlock Holmes made his way out of the building and slipped into the cab, going straight into what John immediately recognized as a sulk. 

“Come on, have some Christmas spirit” John teased playfully as he joined Sherlock in the cab, moments later.

There was in this moment it began to dawn on John that it was actually Christmas. It was Christmas, and not only was he going to spend it with Sherlock, but with him and the man’s family. A family he had never met, and had no idea what they’d think of him, let alone what they expected him to be like. When John had voiced his concerns to Sherlock two weeks earlier, the night when the invitation first had arrived, he’d simply shrugged and brushed it off with an unbothered “it’ll be fine”, and turned his attention back to the experiment he’d been conducting. John knew it was not going to be fine. For all he knew, Sherlock’s parents could be anybody, and judging by their sons, John almost feared them, having created a mental image of two absolutely terrifying geniuses who probably reproduced asexually. No, this was not good, and as if meeting the parents wasn’t bad enough, meeting the parents during Christmas added a whole new layer of pressure. 

“Stop worrying” Sherlock blurted out to John’s surprise. “You spent an extra five minutes getting ready this morning, and checked yourself in the mirror twice before you left the flat. Don’t worry.”

Before John had the time to question Sherlock about whether or not it was a common occurrence that Sherlock timed how long he spent in the shower, Sherlock pulled out his phone which he began to type away furiously at, clearly not wanting to be disturbed any longer. The two men grew quiet, and as the cab began driving towards Waterloo Station, John was confident in the fact that the following train ride would give him plenty of time to overthink the situation, despite Sherlock’s assurances.

\--- 

By the time the train had reached its destination it had become completely dark outside, despite the fact that it was as early as 4 PM. The air was chilly and a few lonely snowflakes were spiralling down from the sky, sprinkling the hairs of the two men stepping out of the railway station in the small town. The train ride itself had been dull, and aside from having Sherlock claim he wasn’t hungry, only to nick half of John’s snacks, John had found himself staring out of the window for the majority of the time, occasionally dozing off every once in a while, leaving him with a subtle pain in the back that desperately needed to be stretched out.

Still, John couldn’t complain about his whereabouts. This was nice. The picturesque little countryside town gave off a cozy vibe with its elegant lamp posts and colorful Christmas decorations that reminded John of the excitement Christmas used bring when he was very little. It was soothing, walking down a quiet street with a person that meant the world to John, knowing they were going to spend this holiday together, and almost for a second forgetting the horrors that may lie in front of him. John sighed as he waited for the taxi he and Sherlock had ordered, and watched as his breath formed a tiny cloud in front of him. 

As they came closer and closer towards the Holmes residence, so did the fact that John was about to face his fears, and he could feel himself growing more apprehensive with every turn the cab took. Sherlock didn’t comment, but John noticed the detective rolling his eyes at his own reflection in the car window when his friend, at first, unconsciously began tapping his finger on the car seat. Slowly, the landscape outside of the window began to change, becoming more countryside than town, with bigger and fancier houses. Finally, the car started slowing down in front of one of the houses. It was one of the bigger buildings in the area, with bright brick walls and large windows with warm light scintillating out of them. A narrow path had been shoveled into existence from the road to the door, and in the deep snow surrounding the path, the top straws of a group of dormant plants peeked up, hinting at a garden. The house seemed completely normal - no ominous mansion with moats or towers at all. I fact, it even felt inviting. 

Sherlock was quick to exit the cab, leaving John to pay as he listened to the snow crunching underneath Sherlock’s feet as he made his way up the path. Soon John could join him at the door that was decorated with a wreath. Both men stood in silence for a moment. John looked up at his taller friend and found the man smiling, making John unable to not beam back.

“Shall we?” Sherlock asked, and lifted a finger to ring the doorbell.

The gloved finger hovered millimeters from the bell, just about to press it, when the door swung open, forcing Sherlock to quickly take a step backwards. When John turned his gaze towards the person in the door, he was bewildered, having discovered what seemed to be as far away as possible from what he’d initially envisioned any member of Sherlock’s family to look like. A short woman, dressed in bright and warm colors, appearing to be in her seventies stood in front of them with a big smile on her face.

“I thought I heard someone outside!” the woman exclaimed enthusiastically whilst practically pulling Sherlock inside by the collar of his coat to give him a tight hug. “We haven’t seen you in ages, Sherlock. I keep telling you, you really should come around more often!”  
The face Sherlock made when his mother finally let go reminded John of the face of a teenager embarrassed by their parents. _This_ was Sherlock’s mother? The woman in front of John looked like any old woman with her gray hair and kind eyes. Certainly not some sort of emotionless mad genius. 

“Oh, and you must be John! It’s so nice to finally meet you. Sherlock has barely told me anything about you. I’m Violet Holmes.” she continued in a cheery voice. John glanced at Sherlock as he shook the woman’s hand, introducing himself to her. The knowing smirk on Sherlock’s face screamed “ _See, I told you it’d be fine_ ”, and John believed him. Mrs Holmes exceeded every expectation, and that warm Christmas feeling slowly began to make its way back to John, filling him up with energy. 

The inside of the house gave off the same impression as the outside. Welcoming, warm, and now with the Christmas decorations - festive. John found himself admiring the interior and how normal everything seemed, wondering how it was possible for Sherlock to come from this. When he observed his friend though, it was clear that Sherlock felt at home here. The man seemed relaxed, and his pleased smile was a genuine one. Maybe Sherlock wasn’t so out of place, after all. 

As they moved inside, taking off their coats, another person appeared in the hallway. This time a man, about the same age as Mrs Holmes, with glasses hanging around his neck and an apron tied around his waist. John could only presume this was Mr Holmes, looking equally as commonplace as his wife - in a good way, of course. The fears of a nightmare holiday had at this point been blown out of the window. If Sherlock’s parents were anywhere near as nice as they looked, this weekend was probably going to be fine, if not even enjoyable. 

Or not.

It was when Mr Holmes introduced himself that John began to wonder, because something was not right. 

“I can’t describe how soothing it is to know that Sherlock has finally settled down with someone, and you seem like a nice chap.” Mr Holmes said after shaking John’s hand, sounding completely content with what he was saying.

John did his best to not let his smile falter, and could only hope that his eyes didn’t give away his total surprise. Not at all did that make it seem as if Mr Holmes had gotten a very, very askew idea of what kind of relationship John had with his best friend. The friend he’d lived with longer than anyone else, the friend his life revolved around, and perhaps most importantly in this case - the friend everyone thought he was dating. Surely the parents of this very friend wouldn’t be firm believers of any of these rumors, surely not, John told himself, even though he recognized this situation too well. It happened everywhere. At restaurants, crime scenes, even bloody Tescos people made those tiny remarks implying that the two men were more than just friends. Everyone seemed to have it figured out except the two people in the centre of it, and John knew this was the reason those remarks bugged him so much.

John knew he was bisexual. He’d known it for a long time, and had over the years become rather comfortable with his sexuality. Something he was much less comfortable with, was knowing he found Sherlock attractive. Really attractive, in fact, and the assumptions about their relationship served as a constant reminder of how the things John fantasised about weren’t actually real. This, however, was a completely new situation. In the past, many people close to John had been living under the impression that John was indeed dating Sherlock, something John was had become very good correcting people at, but now it felt almost inappropriate to do so. So for the sake of not causing a scene two minutes after stepping into the house, John stayed quiet about the matter as he trotted on further into the house, following Sherlock and Mrs Holmes who’d begun to make their way up a staircase. 

“Dinner will hopefully be ready in not too long. If only Mycroft would have taken the early train! I swear that man never takes a break.” Mrs Holmes began as she took a right turn at the top of the staircase, leading John and Sherlock towards a white door. “Alright, here are you boys’ bedroom. I’ll just leave you to get everything sorted, and don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything you need”

And with that, Mrs Holmes was on her way downstairs, leaving Sherlock and John at the door of the bedroom they were apparently going to be sharing for the upcoming two nights. Which was fine. Totally fine, and to John’s horrors, the situation wasn’t exactly improved when Sherlock nonchalantly opened the door to reveal the inside of the room.

“There’s only one bed” John stated.

“Brilliant observation, John. You’ll be thrilled when you realize there are two chairs in the room.” Sherlock deadpanned as he began to unpack his duffel bag.

John snorted at Sherlock’s reply, but it didn’t stop his mind racing. The one bed meant that Sherlock’s parents intended for them to share it. To be fair, the bed was of an adequate size to fit two grown men, but it was certainly not larger than that. Sharing it with Sherlock would inevitably include numerous incidents of accidental touching, and the amounts of shared body heat would be massive. The room itself was rather minimalistic, and had no other furniture that could substitute for a bed, so John knew there was no way of getting around this. Tonight was undoubtedly going to be interesting. 

For the first couple of hours, everything seemed fine, surprisingly fine considering this was Sherlock’s family. John still hadn’t been able to shake off that eerie feeling that this was too good to be true, but still, everything progressed normally, and with the arrival of Mycroft who was in a state of spurious excitement, dinner followed. 

“So, John, why don’t you tell us about how you and Sherlock met?” Mrs Holmes suggested as soon as the Christmas dinner had been served and the chatter had begun to die down around the table.

Sherlock really didn’t tell his parents anything, did he? It was almost as if John was some stranger that Sherlock had just happened to bring along. For all Mr and Mrs Holmes knew, he could be anyone. Actually, from Sherlock’s parents perspective, John’s presence must’ve looked terribly strange with him just showing up, but the encouraging look in Mrs Holmes eyes still gave the impression that no one minded, and the sense of comfort the woman radiated made John feel like opening up. And thus, he told the story of how he, and the man facing him at the dinner table met all those years ago.

Due to his blog, and the fact that John knew he probably wouldn’t be breathing today if it wasn’t for that day, John had no problem to recall the events of January 28th and 29th, 2010. It was like retelling what happened yesterday. When John had first walked through the lab doors a Bart’s and seen the ridiculously striking man, that for some absurd reason wanted to live with him?

“Oh, John. That’s so sweet.” Mrs Holmes commented as John finished his story. 

“Sherlock never let us in on the details” Mr Holmes continued. “One day he just told us he’d found himself a flatmate, and there was that. Didn’t even tell us the address.”

Mr Holmes laughed a hearty laugh, playfully patting his son on the shoulder. Sherlock was visibly squirming in his seat, looking notably on edge, his eyes flickering between his parents. The gaze was penetrating, and John felt a subtle change in Sherlock’s mood. Was that anxiety? It was a change only he had seemed to have noticed, but then, John’s attention constantly seemed to find its way back to Sherlock. With a smile towards his friend that John hoped would come off as reassuring, he turned his attention back to Sherlock’s parents.

“Yeah. About that, I hope it doesn’t feel like I’m just, I don’t know, barging in here. You know, considering me. Being a bit of a stranger, that is."

The couple laughed, and Mrs Holmes reached out a hand to touch John’s arm.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, dear! You’re always welcome here. It’s been so long since Sherlock brought anyone home to meet us.” she said, smiling broadly at a John that was unwillingly starting piece everything together. 

John was very much aware of that the concept of “meeting the parents” was heavily associated with introducing one’s romantic partner to the family, and having Mrs Holmes put it like that, was suggesting things that John was too scared to even think about. The occasional assumption by strangers that John and his flatmate were dating was something he’d grown used to, but this was different. Oh, it was different. This was more than just a suggestive comment by a waiter, or a presumptuous Scotland Yard detective. John looked back and forth between Mr and Mrs Holmes, who had moved on to discuss something with Mycroft and occasionally Sherlock, who would jump into the conversation to make a snarky remark from time to time. 

No question, no matter how delicately phrased, could possibly convey “Do you think Sherlock and I are dating?” without having a horrendous outcome. Have them say yes, and awkwardly have to explain how that was, in fact, not the case and possibly upset both parents, or have them say no and plant the idea in their head. John glanced over at Sherlock and managed to catch the man’s eye. Talking to Sherlock would possibly just make it even worse, so that was a no. He couldn’t talk to Sherlock about this. Sherlock blinked at John, who met him with an innocent smile and turned back to his food. 

Apart from Mrs Holmes’ remark, dinner was enjoyable with delicious food and good company. Of course, the two brothers’ never ending dispute was as ongoing as ever, but with the exception of that, time passed quickly, and soon John found himself forgetting the uncomfortableness he’d felt earlier that night. He was enjoying himself, and had come to fully accept that Sherlock’s parents were just over all kind, and rather pleasant people to talk to. That was, until the topic about John and Sherlock’s relationship came up again. 

It was about 9 PM, and John had ended up on a sofa placed right in front of a cozy, burning fireplace with Mr Holmes. Everything had started off normally, John had to admit. Just a perfectly ordinary conversation between two people who were getting to know each other, talking about what one did as a living, interests and, and this is where it got bad, love life. 

“Earlier, when Violet mentioned that this was the first time in very long that Sherlock has brought someone home, she really did meant it. We love Sherlock, of course, but he’s always been difficult, so you can probably imagine why we were so happy we were when he told us you were coming along. You really must be special to him.” he said. 

John let out a subtle, but frustrated sniff. This was ridiculously vague. Mr Holmes _was_ right, but the fact that he, nor any other family member, had used any specific term to define Sherlock and John’s relationship made John squirm uncomfortably in his seat. It was almost as if they wanted to keep him anxiously waiting for them to reveal what they really thought was going on. Were they friends or lovers? John himself could barely tell anymore. 

Perhaps it was a childish reaction, but John couldn’t help to feel as though it was somewhat unfair of Sherlock to not help him tackle this. After all, it was his bloody parents. Knowing him, he’d undoubtedly already deduced how his parents felt about this, and if he’d only been here he’d probably been able to divert the conversation by now. John helplessly scanned the room for his friend, but alas. The only other signs of life in the lounge was Mrs Holmes talking to a clearly bored Mycroft at a table across the room. Where on Earth had the man gone? 

“I’m curious. What makes you different?” Mr Holmes suddenly asked, sounding eager as ever, and John could feel his skin turn pale. 

“I- Um. He… Sherlock-” he stammered, taken aback by the question that he definitely wasn’t ready to answer. 

Listening to Sherlock’s parents possibly make assumptions that John wished were true was one thing, but actually playing along? That would be too much involvement. Even though he technically wouldn’t be lying about anything if he did answer the question, John knew that he’d also confirm the assumptions, meaning there was no going back. He’d have to explain this to Sherlock. John felt the panic bubbling inside of him, and just like that, it didn’t matter if talking to Sherlock would make it all worse. He had to discuss this with him. Now.

Maybe it was rude, but panic has a astounding ability to cripple one’s rational thinking. John began to search through his pockets until he fished out his phone, carefully hiding the pitch black screen from Mr Holmes. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr Holmes, it’s my sister. Do you mind if I…?” he asked, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking too much.

“Of course not! Off you go!”

Mr Holmes seemed more than fine with it, so with that, John pressed the completely silent phone against his ear and bolted for the nearest exist with a “Merry Christmas, Harry!”. When he came close to the doorway, Mrs Holmes’ voice was heard.

“Oh, John, since you’re going towards the kitchen anyway, could you be a dear and pick up my reading glasses? I believe I left them by the kettle.”

In a haste, John simply turned his head towards Mrs Holmes as she spoke, never bothering to slow down his pace, feeling too desperate to get to Sherlock. 

“I’ll get them, no prob-”

John was nearly out of the room, just about to pass through the door frame, when the sound of his phone hitting the floor was heard as something collided straight into his body, nearly causing him to fall over. As John turned his head, he discovered the only person who was not in the room - Sherlock, who probably looked just as dizzy as John after the rather violent crash.

“John?” Sherlock croaked as his hands reached towards his hair to reposition some curls that had fallen out of place. 

John let out a breath that he didn’t know he’d been holding, and leaned in closer towards his friend.

“Sherlock, we need to talk.” he whispered. 

He bent down to pick up his phone, which had thankfully landed with the screen facing down and therefore saved John from having to explain to Sherlock’s parents why he had faked the phone call. When John raised to his full height again, he was met with a puzzled Sherlock. The man opened his mouth, and John could only hear the beginning of a “ _What_ ”, as Mrs Holmes, who’d kept quiet since the collision, was heard. 

“That’s lovely, boys!” she exclaimed, excitedly gesturing towards a point above John and Sherlock.

Lovely? There was absolutely nothing lovely about this whole situation, if not… It felt as though the world was moving in slow motion as John tilted his head upwards. There, hung in the door frame with a red ribbon, it was. It only took John a short glance towards the sitting room to know that everyone’s heads were turned towards them, staring in anticipation. 

“We don’t have to. If it makes you… uncomfortable.” Sherlock murmured, and John could see the uncertainty in his eyes.

Countless of times John had imagined what it would be like to kiss Sherlock. So many sleepless nights had been spent making up first kiss scenarios, but John had never expected it to happen like this. Did he even want it to happen like this? Sherlock wouldn’t be upset if he was turned down, but they weren’t alone. The audience was waiting. Of course they did, since they all seemed to convinced that the two men under the mistletoe were dating. John took one last glimpse at Mrs Holmes, whose eyes were lit up in excitement, before he made his decision. 

A muffled “ _hmph!_ ” escaped Sherlock, who’d been caught off guard, seemingly having miscalculated the outcome of the situation. However, as John’s right hand found itself on Sherlock’s hips he could feel how the tension in the other man’s body slowly began to reduce. Sherlock’s bony hands reached for John’s face, and suddenly, the detective was _responding_. The kiss tasted like the dessert that had been served earlier that day, and John couldn’t get enough, but before he had the time to truly take in that _this was happening_ , and just like that, the moment was over. A fiercely blushing Sherlock removed his somewhat shaky hands and pulled back with his mouth slightly open in bewilderment. He said nothing. 

In the distance, something that sounded like an ecstatic Mrs Holmes was heard, but John didn’t listen. Couldn’t listen. His eyes were locked on Sherlock, unable to tear themselves away from him, knowing that if either of them snapped out of it this would be over and they’d have to deal with the consequences. The only two things that existed were Sherlock and the mantra John’s brain seemed so keen on repeating.

_I kissed him  
I kissed him  
I kissed him _

Sherlock blinked. Stayed like that for another five seconds. Then he shook his head and darted out of the room.

\---

An hour went by. Two hours went by, and John had begun to accept that Sherlock wasn’t coming back in the near future. Since the man had left, John had closed himself off in an armchair with a glass of wine that had been finished a long time ago, leaving John to stare into the fireplace. He was quiet, probably quieter than usual, but he couldn’t help it. This evening just seemed to be getting worse. John glanced at his phone that was lying on the coffee table. Should he text Sherlock? His hand reached for the phone, unlocked it and clicked on “messages”. Apart from an actual Christmas text from Harry - nothing. John tapped on Sherlock’s name and began to type out a message. 

_Where are you? Are you OK?_

No. John hit backspace. The phone was put back on the coffee table, and John’s gaze wandered to the fire once again. His gaze was fixed on nothing in particular, and he allowed himself to get lost in thought. This was, however, a state he didn’t remain very long in, because soon a light pressure was felt on his right shoulder. In surprise, John swung around rapidly only to discover Mrs Holmes standing behind him. 

“Mind if I join you?” she asked, but took a seat before John had had the time to answer. 

Throughout the entire evening, Mrs Holmes’ presence had only been associated with good and positive things, but there was something different about this. Perhaps it was the seriousness in Mrs Holmes’ voice that made John more uneasy than he wanted to. They hadn’t exchanged a word between each other since the kiss, and John feared that it was that very thing she wanted to talk about. 

“John, how is it? You’ve been terribly quiet the past couple of hours.”

John hesitated for a moment, unsure what to say, but then made up his mind.

“I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Just a bit tired. Long day, you know.”

Mrs Holmes stayed quiet for a second as she looked at John with that same facial expression Sherlock made when he thought he’d caught a suspect in a lie. 

“Are you sure? It’s just - and please tell me if I’m being intrusive now - but I can’t help but worry about how things are between you and Sherlock. You both seemed so… stiff earlier. Are you sure everything is okay?” she asked.

How the hell were you supposed to reply to that? John knew he was probably just as, if not even more, confused than Mrs Holmes, and was absolutely clueless as to how he was supposed to talk about a relationship that wasn’t even a thing. He couldn’t tell her the truth, but lying was arguably worse. It would be to dig himself, and Sherlock, into a massive hole. He couldn’t put that pressure on Sherlock, could he? Still, they’d be going home in two days, and both men knew where the mistletoe was located now. Sherlock couldn’t possibly have missed the fact that his parents were convinced the relationship between him and John was of a romantic nature. A selfish part of John also recognized this as his only chance to, for just two days, actually experience what he’d been dreaming about. 

“It’s good, really. We’re fine. Actually we’re more than fine, but I think both me and Sherlock can agree that this is a pretty big deal. Meeting the parents. During Christmas. We’ve both been a bit nervous, I think.” he blurted out, and desperately hoped Mrs Holmes would swallow the lie. 

It was unclear if Mrs Holmes actually believed him. John could tell by the slight squint on her face that she was questioning what John had just said, but suddenly, as if she’d totally snapped out of what seemed to be a state of disbelief, her face brightened as she clasped her hands together. 

“Oh, John! Of course, of course, I should’ve realized. Sorry about that, but I’m glad you’re both here. I suppose I’m becoming a bit overprotective, because it’s rare, this, which I know we’ve said many times. Sherlock isn’t always an easy person to deal with.”

“Yeah, I know” John scoffed and pretended to be terribly captivated with his long empty wine glass.

“Actually” Mrs Holmes began as she turned around to scan the rest of the room as if looking for something. “Do you have any idea where he is? I haven’t seen him for hours.”

“Oh, uh, I think he… left somewhere after, you know.”, John said, squirming in his seat, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the kiss being brought up again. 

The two went quiet for a moment, but the silence was interrupted by the ringing of the fancy grandfather clock on the other side of the room. As John looked over to the clock’s dial and noticed the time, he saw his escape.

“11 o’clock, huh? Maybe it’s time for me to retire. Wanna be well-rested for tomorrow!”, he said with a quick laugh that Mrs Holmes joined in on. 

“That’s a good idea! I should probably be heading to bed soon, too”, the woman replied with a yawn.

John smiled.

“Tell the others I said goodnight”

With that, Mrs Holmes wished him goodnight as John got up from the sofa and made his way out of the room, exiting through the very door frame which he had kissed Sherlock Holmes underneath earlier that night. John climbed the stairs up to the second floor, once again considering texting Sherlock. Was he even planning on coming back? No, that was stupid. Of course he would. Despite how much Sherlock seemed to dislike his family and silly Christmas celebrations, John had seen love in the man’s eyes as he was reunited with his family, and he knew that Sherlock wasn’t some sort of Christmas hating Grinch. He’d come back. Eventually.

John found himself unable to go to sleep, only drifting in and out of it for hours in a bed that seemed to get more and more uncomfortable for every toss and turn he made. Outside, the wind was whistling. A snow storm was apparently coming, which John had found out at 1:29 AM when he’d checked his phone, wondering how long the wind was supposed to be roaring like this. Ever since John had begun his very much failed attempt at going to sleep, he’d been unable to stop thinking about the events of this evening. Whenever John could feel sleep creeping near, the mental images of the kiss kept coming back, sending a shiver down his spine. 

It was a couple of hours later, when John had started to doze off for real, when a noise was heard. At first, he questioned if the noises had been real. They might as well just have been a product of John’s half-dreaming mental state, but as he begun to wake up, his mind becoming clearer, he realized it was footsteps. Awfully quiet ones, but they were there, slowly travelling up the staircase as if the person was trying to make as little noise as possible. John rubbed his eyes. Squinted. Could it be…?

The bedroom door slowly swung open and revealed a dark figure that John would recognize anywhere by its height and large mop of hair. The figure did a surprisingly good job at silently shutting the door again, clearly not having noticed that John was awake. He rummaged through his coat that smelled strongly of damp wool and pulled out his phone, using the illuminated screen as a soft light to guide him through the pitch black room. John reached for the lamp switch on the bedside table.

“Sherlock?” he asked as he clicked the on-switch.

The room was lit up in a yellow light from the lamp, revealing what looked like a pretty soaked Sherlock. Some ice crystals were still in his hair and on his coat, but most of them seemed to have melted long ago, making his hair dripping wet. The man himself looked at John with a puzzled expression. 

“John?” Sherlock replied, looking as though he couldn’t believe John had caught him in the act. “I assumed you would be asleep.”

“Well, I’m full of surprises” John scoffed and sat up in the bed. 

Sherlock said something that sounded like “ _Clearly_ ” under his breath and threw off his coat and scarf. 

“So, you just… left?” John asked. “Went outside for, what, five hours?”

“I didn’t mean to come back this late. The storm was a bit uncalled for, I’ll admit. I ended up taking shelter in the local pub until they closed.”

“So when were you planning on coming back?” John replied, sounding slightly harsher than he’d intended to. “God, Sherlock, we need to talk about your parents.”

“My parents?” Sherlock squeaked defensively, almost as if he could sense what was coming next.

At this point, the detective was unbuttoning his shirt, clearly getting ready to join John in the bed. Under any other circumstances, John would’ve probably said something to ease the awkwardness about the two of them sharing it, but this time, he was too tired and too keen on actually having this “according to your parents, what are we?” conversation. Sherlock switched the button down shirt for a faded grey shirt that John presumed he slept in, kicked off his shoes and crawled out of his trousers and under the covers on John’s left side. 

“Gah, get your feet off me! They’re freezing. I hope your mum has gotten you a nice pair of knitted socks.” John exclaimed as Sherlock’s toes brushed against his calves. “Speaking of your mother though, what on Earth is going on, Sherlock?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

John wriggled his body so that he was facing his friend who busied himself with staring straight into the ceiling above him. 

“Come on, you must’ve noticed! They’re convinced we’re dating.”

“Oh, that. Yeah.”

“Yeah, that. So what are we going to do about it?”

The man went quiet for a moment and John watched as he pursed his full lips as if in deep thought. He made a _hmm_ noise and then popped his lips. John waited in anticipation for the brilliant idea that he knew was about to come out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Nothing. Based on the way we’ve presented ourselves in the past, they’ve made the assumption that we’re dating, so clearly we’re already doing enough.”

John could feel his face drop in shock. Do nothing? Was Sherlock actively trying to ruin Christmas? Nothing was by far the worst possible solution to this. John sighed.

“No, we’re not. Turns out your mother thinks we’re a bit ‘stiff’, for some inexplicable reason. She pulled me aside, Sherlock, because she was worried this-” John gestured between himself and Sherlock. “wasn’t ending well! How bad would it be if we told them the truth?”

“No.” Sherlock answered quickly. “We can’t.”

There was something about how fast, almost too fast, Sherlock answered. The way he rapidly turned his head towards John, and the desperate look in his eyes. It was strange. This man never tiptoed around anything, and never missed an opportunity to correct someone who was wrong. So what was different now?  
“John” Sherlock began, carefully observing his fingers that were playing with the blanket. “I should probably have let you in on this, even though I initially thought it would be fine. At least they’d promised not to be so up in our faces about it.”

“With what? What are you on about?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for the reaction to whatever he was about to say.

“My parents have been nagging me for years about how lonely I am. Always going on about how I need to find someone and how happy I’d be if I did. And then I told them about you. When we first met.”

Slowly, John began to see where this was going. He hoped he didn’t, but ultimately, this could only go in one direction.

“You told your parents we…”

 

“No!”, Sherlock cut him off defensively. “Mummy _asked_ if you were my… You know, and I saw an opportunity.”

It was way too late for this, and John’s weariness was definitely contributing to the anger that boiling up inside of him. 

“You- You told your parents we were dating, what, four years ago, and then we show up, acting like we’ve never laid our hands on each other?”

“Well. We haven’t.”

“That’s not the point I’m trying to make!” John hissed, trying to keep his voice down. “Four years, Sherlock! God, they’re probably wondering why we aren’t engaged yet”

“Stop shouting or you’ll have to answer that to my parents!” Sherlock spat back. “What do _you_ suggest we do? Is one of us going down on one knee tomorrow? I’m sure we can find a ring lying around somewhere in the house.”

“Of course not! But we have to do something. Amp up the romance somehow, I guess.”

It wasn’t John’s intentions to suggest they’d play along, and yet here he was, blurting it out as a suggestion in a moment of anger and desperation. Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh.

“That would be… suitable. Yes, very suitable, indeed. Assuming you’re comfortable with it?” he finally said.

Was he? John had no clue. At first the idea of getting to pretend to be in a relationship with Sherlock had been appealing, but the closer John got to actually doing it, the bigger the knot in his stomach grew. Maybe he’d show too much enthusiasm? What if Sherlock saw right through him? Would they be able to continue on as normal after this? John wished he had even the slightest idea of an answer to the questions he had, but that wasn’t the case. Besides, he was the one who’d suggested it, so there really was no backing out at this point.

“Well, I suppose I am. I mean, I survived tonight. You okay?”

“Yeah. Bit unfair to tell them now and upset Mummy during Christmas.”

“Yeah.”

And with that, it had been decided that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were now in a relationship. Or at least a pretend one. John thought about it for a moment as he and the detective laid in silence. He probably should have asked what this would include. Touching? Hugging? Kissing? John opened his mouth to discuss this, but shut it again, realizing that, just as he’d said, he’d survived tonight, and regardless what was ahead of him, it surely couldn’t get worse.

Suddenly, an arm reached across John’s chest and over to the bedside table. A click was heard as the off-switch button on the lamp was pushed and the room went black. Sherlock turned his back to John with a “good night”. John repeated the phrase to his friend and turned around so that he was no longer facing Sherlock, maybe out of fear of getting too close. After all, the bed felt awfully small, and it seemed damn near impossible to lie in any position without somehow touching the other person. 

“Hey, Sherlock?” John suddenly asked after a minute of silence. “‘ _Mummy_ ’? Really?”

A snort was heard from the detective. 

“Shut up”

No more words were uttered after this, and John found himself drifting off to sleep almost immediately to sound of the whining snowstorm outside and the soothing breaths from his friend. 

\--- 

It was many hours later that John finally woke up to the bright light that was now seeping in through the blinds. The first things that crossed John’s mind was how something felt different. Just different. A subtle scent of sweat and a cologne that wasn’t John’s lingered in the air, but that wasn’t all. As John’s limbs began to move, trying to reach the phone on his nightstand, he was stopped by a crushing weight slung on top of him with its left arm wrapped tightly around John’s chest. A breathing, lightly snoring weight with a birdnest of dark hair that was softly tickling John’s stubbled chin. _Oh_. 

_Oh my God. You’re cuddling with him. Cuddling. Oh my God._

Should he move? Wake up Sherlock? Leave him and get in the shower? John stared down on the other man’s hair and was hit by a sudden urge to touch it. Run his fingers through it and find out if it was just as soft as it looked. The urge was resisted. It was nice though, being close like this, wrapped up in each other’s warmth and just existing. John rubbed his tired eyes and unlocked his numb right arm from where it had been trapped underneath Sherlock’s shoulder. After letting the blood return to the arm, he grasped his phone.

9:03 AM. Probably time to get up. With only about six hours of sleep, the thought of doing so was somewhat painful, but as soon as John remembered what was ahead of him, the mixture of excitement and anxiety was too much to keep him in bed. Filled with new energy, he began to untangle himself from Sherlock’s body that seemed to have attached itself permanently to John. It was during this that John felt the man move. The arm that previously had been holding on to John’s torso now made its way towards the detective’s face, slowly brushing the unruly curls out of his eyes. He sighed, and suddenly his entire body went stiff. Maybe he’d just had the same realization as John. That this was happening. John hoped he wasn’t too horrified.

Sherlock then tilted his head upwards, so that he could face the man he’d been crushing overnight. He blinked, as if taking his time to really make sure he wasn’t dreaming. The moment he came to the conclusion that that wasn’t the case, his eyes widened. 

“Oh.” was all he said in a confused voice. 

Slowly, Sherlock removed himself from John, who could detect a slight tint of red on his friend cheeks. To be fair, he probably didn’t look less embarrassed himself. He sat up and stretched out with a tired groan. Were they going to address this? John thought of something to say, just anything to break the silence so they could move on, but never got the time when Sherlock saw his puzzled face. 

“See this as a bit of a warm up for the rest of the weekend” Sherlock said eventually, with a smile that never quite reached his eyes, and turned his back to the bed to start getting dressed. John himself climbed out from where he was lying underneath the cover, grabbed some clothes and headed for the shower. 

About twenty minutes later, Sherlock, wearing his navy blue shirt, and John found themselves at the kitchen table with a massive breakfast prepared by Mrs Holmes in front of them. 

”Hey, we never went over exactly what we’re going to do. How do we act?” John whispered, careful to not let anyone but Sherlock hear what he was saying.

”I don’t know, this was your idea!” Sherlock hissed back, but when he saw the pleading expression on John’s face he softened. “Just act like you would with a real partn-“

Abruptly, Sherlock went quiet as he shoved some eggs into his mouth. Confused, John met the man’s eyes as he subtly nodded his head towards the door. In an attempt to be discreet, John slowly looked over his shoulder to discover Mrs Holmes heading into the kitchen with a smile on her face that felt way too cheery for the situation, even though she was unaware of it. Before John had the time to ask what the plan was, Sherlock’s had laid his big hand on top of John’s free hand that had been resting on the table. 

With the arrival of Mrs Holmes, and soon also Mycroft, who, to John’s surprise had slept longer than anyone else, the act begun. Sweaty hand holding, awkward touching and calling each other “love” became only a few of the things endured over the day. It had all started out stiffly, the two men having no idea how to act this way with each other. John found himself in a constant internal battle between “ _Am I overdoing it? Is he going to realize?_ ” and “ _Am I doing it enough? Are they going to realize?_ ”, but as time progressed, they slipped into the rhythm of it, growing more and more comfortable. 

After agreeing to go out for dinner that night with the whole family, John found himself waiting for his food while absently stroking Sherlock’s hand at one of the local restuarants in the town. This all felt so real, terrifyingly so. It had all gone so fast. A couple of hours ago, even letting his hand rest on Sherlock’s shoulder felt scary, almost forbidden, and here he was now, holding the man’s hand without a second thought, as if this was something they did on the regular. As if they really were together. The sudden realization made John want to pull his hand away, because this wasn’t real after all. Tomorrow they would go back to Baker Street, and all of this would stop. 

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked in a small voice only intended for John’s ears. 

Of course he had noticed something was wrong. Maybe it was the increased palm sweat, the fact that he’d bit his lip or how he was subtly squirming in his seat. Sherlock knew, and as John made eye contact with him, Sherlock lightly squeezed his hand. 

“Fine.” John replied reassuringly. “I guess.”

Was he fine? John didn’t know. Getting to act like this with Sherlock, regardless of the reason why, was more than he’d ever expected out of this trip, and he couldn’t deny that it did bring him immense happiness to know that he could just touch Sherlock like this. This happiness was however beginning to be overwashed by some strange sort of unsettling melancholy that John didn’t get the time to analyze any further, as a waiter arrived at the table with plates of food that would soon make John forget any doubt or uneasiness.

Like that, everything went on, and, to John’s relief, his and Sherlock’s relationship wasn’t brought up a single time by Mr and Mrs. Holmes. The act seemed to work almost better than John had anticipated, and when he brought it up to Sherlock later that night as they’d huddled up in bed, the man seemed more than content with the day.

“Oh, they definitely bought it” he huffed playfully.

John beamed back at his fake lover. They really had bought it. 

“Maybe we’re really just that compatible” John teased with a grin.

Sherlock hummed in response as he picked up his phone from the bedside table. The room went quiet, and John reached for the light switch. The two men were embedded in darkness apart from the dimmed ice blue light that was cast upon Sherlock’s face. John watched his friend blink at the screen in front of him for a minute or two before deciding to leave Sherlock to it and go to sleep. A couple of minutes later, some rummaging was heard, soon followed by two light buzzes from Sherlock’s phone. John opened his eyes just a little, squinting drowsily at the dark figure beside. Not long after, the figure was lightly snoring.

\---

To John’s grand disappointment, he woke up to an empty bed. Maybe due to last mornings’ situation that was still unspoken of. Both of them knowing that that happened, and perhaps fearing talking about it would be inevitable if it just happened to occur again. But things moved on. Breakfast was eaten, a brisk morning walk with Mr Holmes was taken, and time crept closer and closer toward 6PM, when the evening train back to London would leave the town. This knowledge filled John up with optimism, and around 2:15 when he happened to glance at his watch, the realization that they had made it washed over him, almost like a tsunami. Despite all of this, it was going to be alright. Sherlock was an idiot. He really was, thinking it was a good idea to lie to his parents about something so fundamental, but everything was going to be alright. The act would come to an end, and hopefully things would go back to normal with John pining over his friend, and now also regretting he hadn’t done more this weekend. 

\---

“John, you should know that we really can’t thank you enough” Mrs Holmes exclaimed as everyone involved with the Christmas celebration had one final cup of tea before the departure of John and Sherlock.

Sherlock’s parents were lovely. They absolutely were. Wonderful, kind and thoughtful people, but when Mrs Holmes threw things like that out with Mr Holmes nodding in agreement, John really, really wished they cared just a little less. Bracing himself for what was about to come, he put his teacup back into the saucer and took a deep breath. 

“I mean it. He seems so much happier around you, and I truly can’t understand why he’s kept you from meeting us for so long.”

John didn’t have to look at the detective on his left side to know that he was rolling his eyes. 

“Perhaps for this very reason.” Sherlock chimed in. “We don’t need you interrogating him at every given possibility”

It was a bit rude, John had to admit, but then Sherlock had no problem with being that, and apparently not his parents either, who seemed to have brushed off the comment as nothing. 

“Hey” John said, nudging his friends slightly. _Not good._

Sherlock replied with no more than a stern look, that John assumed was meant as a “ _Fine, your loss_.”, as he crossed his arms over his chest, pursed his lips and returned his gaze to his parents, who were now in the middle of explaining how this very interaction was the definite proof that John was a good influence on their son. John watched as Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, knowing already that this was him putting the room on mute, and simply choosing not to care anymore. John huffed quietly at the childish behaviour, but figured it’d be for the better not to drag him back into the conversation when he’d already closed himself off. Because maybe it was just like Mrs Holmes was explaining in this very moment, that John simply just _understood_ Sherlock. 

“Mm, yes. I think Mummy’s quite right” the sly voice of Mycroft Holmes uttered from across the table. “It’s such a joy that my brother has managed to find himself in such an... affirming relationship.”

For the past couple of days, Mycroft had stayed out of John and Sherlock’s business, and John had known it was too good to be true from the very start. If there was anything Mycroft always did, it was to interfere, as if anything was his concern. Big brother’s watching you - quite literally in this case. Sticking their nose into everyone’s business really was a Holmes family trait. John glanced at Mycroft, who shot a knowing look in John’s direction. Of course he’d realized. John fought the temptation to let out a low growl of frustration. With only a couple of hours left in the house, surely there was no reason for Mycroft to deal with this right now. He’d turn up at Baker Street in a couple of days, make things a bit awkward, only to eventually be shooed away by Sherlock and a screeching violin solo. 

“It is, and you should be happy for your brother!” Mrs Holmes warned with a light smack on her son’s arm. “You might need someone like John in your life to cheer you up”

And like that, the topic of the conversation changed, transpiring into a analysis of Mycroft’s life, complete with a number of suggested improvements. Although the detective had distanced himself entirely from the conversation, John did notice how the right corner of Sherlock’s mouth seemed to have turned up just a little. As Mycroft finally managed to steer the subject of the conversation away from himself, John’s uneasiness began to dissipate, the worries being tucked away in his brain. It was going to be alright. John looked at his watch, noting that it was merely two hours until they’d have to leave.

\---

Of course, it wasn’t going to be fine. A light knock on the door was all John needed to immediately know something was up. He threw the last piece of clothing into his bag, shut it, and turned his attention towards the person on the other side of door.

“Yeah, come in” he called out, his voice sounding shakier than he expected it to. 

For the past couple of days, no one except Sherlock, who for the record never would think of knocking, had entered the room. John stared expectantly at the door as the person on the other side opened it. 

Mycroft. Two thin, long legs dressed in a pair of very expensive striped suit pants stepped into the room. Mycroft eyed John up and down, not moving a muscle in his critical face as he shut the door behind him. There weren’t many things that made John feel uneasy, but Mycroft definitely held a high placement on the list of The Very Few Things That Makes John’s Body Drain From Warmth And Color. When John eventually met the much taller man’s eyes, his mouth curled into an ominous smirk.

“How would you say things have been going this weekend John?” Mycroft asked knowingly as he strolled over to one of the chairs to sit down. “Is it just as lovely as you’d imagined?”

There was no doubt that Mycroft knew. The man knew way too much about Sherlock and John’s private life already, and he’d be the first person to know if any developments had occured in their relationship. Actually, John was pretty damn sure that if they’d actually gotten their relationship sorted out sooner, he would’ve been pulled into a car by one of Mycroft’s goons to be given the “Hurt my brother and you’ll end up dead on the bottom of the ocean”-talk right as him and Sherlock would pull away from their first kiss. Point was, Mycroft knew of the situation, and was probably getting some twisted sort of entertainment out of tormenting John about it.

“It’s been fine. Interesting. Nice sharing the Christmas spirit, you know” John replied as nonchalantly as he possibly could.

Mycroft let out a short and clearly forced laugh.

“Yes, I can imagine. You and my brother seem to be having a splendid time playing your little charade.”

Confrontation. Great. Just what John needed to boost his mood. An annoyed sigh escaped him as he crossed his arms. 

“Shut up, Mycroft.”

“Oh, I’m just checking in. I must say I’m a bit surprised though. Wasn’t sure you’d happily go along with this.”

It wasn’t an entirely untrue prediction, yet the remark made John bite his lip in frustration. That was another Holmes family trait right there. John could swear each and everyone of them had a love for the dramatic.

“What do you want?” John asked, trying to contain his irritation, though not being able to stop the frown on his face. 

“Nothing in particular. I’m just hoping you’ve thought this through. Both of you. Wouldn’t want to go around breaking anyone’s heart.”

“I’m sorry?”

Mycroft swung his leg over the other and dusted some invisible particles off his suit. He then locked his eyes on John.

“My brother is fragile, John, and it is of the utmost importance that he stays stable. You if anyone should know this.” he said, without taking his eyes off of John for even a split second. “I’ll admit that I was fairly surprised to find out about this game he’s been playing, but-”

John cut him off.

“Wait a minute, how long have you known?” he asked, shocked at the idea of Sherlock being able to keep this big of a secret from his own brother 

“Well, I got suspicious the moment Mummy started treating the two of you like _that_ , and these suspicions were confirmed the first night. Mistletoe and all. Since I know for a fact that my brother and you aren’t romantically involved, realising Sherlock was up to something was child’s play”

The way he said it - _Since my brother and you aren’t romantically involved_ \- made John’s skin crawl. Thinking about it was one thing, but having it pointed out by other people was something else. It was the uncomfortable reality check that no one wanted. John realised he’d instinctively clenched his fist to stop it from trembling. 

“John, I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding here. My intentions are good. Just remember to tread carefully. But please, do what is right.”

And with a forced smile, Mycroft was out of the room as quick as he had arrived, not leaving John with any opportunity ask him what the hell he was on about. The vagueness of it all did leave a tremendously dramatic impression, but dear God did Mycroft lack proper communication skills. The man had said he didn’t want there to be any misunderstandings, but John could confirm that he had most definitely failed at that. 

As if that wasn’t enough, there was also some sort of underlying threat in the conversation - how Mycroft had kept telling John to make the right decisions, think about the consequences, not break anyone’s heart. That thought was unpleasant. Breaking someone’s heart. Breaking Sherlock’s heart? It was these questions that made John hopelessly sink down on the bed. Sherlock was fragile, indeed. When John had first started to get to know his friend, he’d been told countless of times that this man had neither feelings nor compassion. That he was the sociopath he would sometimes still claim to be, but as time went on, John slowly began to see something different behind that facade. It was someone that was the complete opposite of a sociopath. Sherlock himself would never agree with that, but John knew it was there. It was there in the way Sherlock would softly play the violin during those nights that left John awake for hours, how he’d pretend to despise John’s blog, only to be the first person to read the posts, and in all of those small things that John couldn’t tell if Sherlock was aware of doing.

He really was _sweet_. John could feel his eyebrows frowning and his nose scrunch. Sweet? It really was the only word he could think of at the moment, because even though the detective could be a nightmare at times, he was that. Sweet. God. Mycroft’s words were starting to nag at him. He may not have understood even a third of the conversation they’d had, but a sudden urge to act on… something, had risen. Mycroft was right. Things most definitely weren’t ideal, and John had to do the right thing. 

His pulse instantly picked up as the thought crossed his mind. He could do it. He could just head downstairs, find Sherlock and _do it_. His hands were fidgeting, looking for something to do. John reached for his phone that had been lying on the nightstand, spun it around in his somewhat sweaty hands for a minute, and then unlocked it. He opened the messaging app, and began typing out a text. Erased it. Began typing again, and then hit send before he had any time to regret what he was getting himself into.

_Hey, what are you up to? Meet me outside for a walk in 5?_

John stared furiously at his phone. Had it been a bad decision? He bit his lip, and just as he was about to put away the phone, it vibrated.

_See you in two. -SH_

\---

This was the coldest day so far since John and Sherlock has first arrived in the town, and the snow crunched underneath the two men’s feet as they walked in silence down the road. It was so freezing that Sherlock had even taken the time to attach the incredibly soft looking fur collar to his coat. John hadn’t had any specific route in mind when he’d prompted the walk, but Sherlock seemed to know where he was going, so John followed. As they reached the end of the street, Sherlock took a left, leading the two of them into a park turned immaculately white. Despite the hour of the day, the snow had been left untouched, completely free from the trails of children playing, or dogs being out on their afternoon walks. 

“It’s beautiful out here” John finally said, breaking the silence as he let his gaze linger on a frozen pond, almost entirely covered by snow. 

A gust of wind hit him, and John suddenly regretted not having worn the scarf that he had brought with him for situations just like this. He wrapped his jacket tighter around him and tried his best to turn up the collar as much as he could. 

“You can borrow my scarf. If you want to” Sherlock blurted out, obviously having noticed the state of his friend.

“The collar is enough to keep me warm” he then added, after John had stayed silent for a little longer than he’d planned to. 

Being offered the scarf felt almost like an honor. Though it had been replaced every once in a while over the years, the signature blue scarf was something that had stayed with Sherlock ever since John had met him back in 2010. It was the only type of scarf John had ever seen him wear, and the thought of Sherlock not wearing it was… strange, almost as if it had become a part of the man. It reminded John of how it felt to see someone who always wore glasses take them off for the first time when Sherlock began to untie it from his neck, not even waiting for John to answer him. 

Before John had the time to reach for the blue piece of cloth, it was around his neck, being carefully wrapped around him, tied and tightened by his friend. John stared at him in awe. This wasn’t like them. Or was it? The intimacy they had shared over the past couple of days, even years, though it had been more of the subtle sort, was perhaps more like them than John had initially thought. People didn’t exactly assume they were a couple because of how stiff they were together. 

And like that John was reminded of why he was here in the first place. The whole purpose of the walk. As discreetly as he possibly could, John peered up at his friend, who was busying himself with making sure the scarf looked good, and wondered if he had any idea. The easiest way to find out would be to ask. Actually, no. It was possibly the hardest way, but here he was. About to do it. Somehow. 

“Thanks.” John said, sounding way shyer than he’d planned to, as Sherlock pulled away from him.

The detective’s lips curled into a genuine smile, as John took a moment to breath in the smell of the scarf. Home, was what it smelled like. Like 221B Baker Street, and like Sherlock. 

“Um, John. I should probably apologize to you” Sherlock began out of nowhere. 

John felt his eyebrows furrow in surprise as he stared at his friend, completely unable to understand what he was doing. Sherlock only apologized when he was aware that he’d done something really bad. Something that had really hurt others, and usually the apology itself never came before John had pointed out that the amends were absolutely necessary. Sherlock pressed his lips together before continuing, staring down at the white ground where he was busying himself with kicking a small pit into it. 

“I’ve realized that the circumstances we’ve been under during the past few days haven’t been ideal” Sherlock continued as he finally met John’s eyes. “Undoubtedly more eventful and unpredictable than any Christmas spent alone would have been, but I can see that my actions may have played a minor part in how these days have perhaps turned out a little bit stranger than necessary .”

John raised a brow.

“Fine, _major._ ” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Point is though, that I didn’t mean for it to become… like this.”

“Are you trying to say you’re sorry?”

Sherlock’s pressed his lips into a conceding smile.

“Yes. I’m sorry, John. However, I greatly appreciate your willingness to play along. You made it a whole lot less insufferable.”

Sherlock had provided a perfect segway into the topic they were really here to discuss. John swallowed. All or nothing.

“Yeah. Um, that was kind of the reason why I asked you to come. To talk about, you know, this.”

“This? You mean…?” Sherlock said, doing some intricate hand movement between himself and John to imply what he was trying to say.

“It’s been nice”

John could finally let out a sigh of relief. There. He’d said it. It was no going back now, but somehow there was something calming about that, how John had done his part. Now it was up to Sherlock to respond, but John could already tell by how his mouth curled into a smile, and the way his eyes were shining, that this was good. Very good. Sherlock’s smile kept growing larger until the man finally opened his mouth to say something. 

“I agree” Sherlock sighed, sounding almost… disappointed? John looked at him, desperately wishing he could tell what the man, who was being just as difficult to read as ever, was thinking. Their eyes met. “So, is this where the act ends?”

“It doesn’t have to.”

The moment John dared to look up at Sherlock, he saw how the man’s green eyes were sparkling, and John could feel the smile spreading across his own face as he stared right into them. 

“Oh, tell me more about it” Sherlock teased, drifting closer to John’s face. 

With that, their lips collided in a kiss that John wasn’t sure who had initiated. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that this was happening, for real this time. John’s fingers travelled up to Sherlock’s hair, finally letting him touch those dark curls. It was magic. Getting to do this for real, without the pressure of an audience, was breathtaking, unreal, wonderful; John was unsure if there were enough adjectives in the English language to describe the feeling. Kissing Sherlock Holmes. A Christmas miracle, really.

“That was- That was _amazing_ ” John breathed as they finally pulled apart. 

“I concur” Sherlock giggled.

It was a high pitched giggle, the type of laugh that was contagious, and soon John found himself laughing along with Sherlock at the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

“Jesus, Sherlock, these past couples of days. They’ve been-“

“Ludicrous?” Sherlock suggested.

“Fucking ludicrous, yeah”

John saw flashbacks from the past couple of days. Holding Sherlock’s hand, staring into his eyes for a long, long time, absently caressing his leg under a table - all of that. All of those things that were supposed to end now that the act was over. But they weren’t going to. Idiots, that’s what they were.

“I kept making deductions about you, and each and every one of them suggested that this was more than just playing along to please my parents to you, but I figured that it was just wishful thinking. I’ve learnt that sentiment can be terribly dangerous in any sort of deductive reasoning.”

“But you were right.”

“I was.”, Sherlock said with a smile.

“I didn’t even dare to consider this. That you felt… like that. I never thought you-”

John was stopped with another kiss.

Ten minutes later, the two men were coming out of the park, this time holding hands on their way back to the house. It was time to say goodbye to the family, take their stuff and finally head to the train station and go _home_. 

\---

“Did you really expect me to not notice?” John asked hours later when the two men were sitting inside a warm train on their way back to London. “I mean, you said your parents had promised to tone down their… enthusiasm, but _come on._ ”

They had been sitting in a comfortable silence since the train had started moving, both of them looking out of the window, admiring the moonlit winter landscapes. Sherlock had eventually gotten bored by it, and proceeded to make the time pass by nagging Lestrade to text him about any new cases.

“Hm?” the detective replied as he looked up from his phone. “Naturally, I realized they’d never be as discreet as they’d promised, although I did expect them to keep their promise to some extent.”

“But you were planning to keep me in the dark?” John asked with the hint of a grin, his hands playing absently with a coffee stained napkin on the table between them. 

“Oh, John, you underestimate my opinion of you. I knew you’d notice something was somewhat off, though I’ll admit my own confession about the whole thing was slightly… uncalled for.”

“And I’m supposed to be the one underestimating the other one?” John laughed, playfully kicking his whatever it was they now were under the table.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did fight back John’s feet until they both found themselves resting comfortable against each other, legs tangled, as the conversation died down for another minute or two. 

“So, do we tell them anything? I mean, your parents?”

Sherlock hummed, allowing himself to think for a moment before answering.

“No. Why should we? After all, they are right about us.”

“I guess they are. Hell, technically they knew before we did.”

“Well, that’s mostly thanks to me.”

“Git.”

The rest of the train ride was spent in silence, leaving John to switch between dozing off every now and then, and continue to observe the landscape. Things were good. Really good. John smiled at Sherlock’s reflection in the window. Whatever it was they were getting themselves into, it was good.

With only a few minutes left until the train reached Waterloo Station, John’s phone buzzed.

_Good job. -MH_

Bloody Mycroft.


End file.
